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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504023">entelechy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/pseuds/hoverbun'>hoverbun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Duskwight Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Enemies to Enemies, M/M, Mute Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Suggestive Themes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:20:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/pseuds/hoverbun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Starlight brings out the worst in him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>entelechy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortarsmayfall/gifts">mortarsmayfall</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>featuring my friend’s warrior of light, marcel augustine &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even with the night returned, Marcel cannot sleep.</p><p>He knows it would be wrong of him to voice such a complaint in the company he’s been made to keep. Even confiding in the Exarch— who has, from the sounds of his supportive deception, gazed into realms and realities where the night still greets its people, whole and undivided and alive— would be inappropriate. Yet, with curtains pulled tight, darkness staining the sky, and all the lights off, Marcel still tastes the permeation of holy aether. It follows into his room like a nauseating wind, something pervasive and everlasting. Even with his back to his room and body against the wall, he knows there’s still Light. His body must not want him to forget.</p><p>Marcel rolls to his back, then towards his room. Though it is well and late, a sliver of moonlight peeks through the drawn shutters, casting lines of light across the floor of his room and crawling up whatever lies in its way. He takes a breath in as he rolls over and heaves himself up off of the bed, now too soft for him to lay on comfortably. People still wander the halls of the Pendants, no matter the time — it doesn’t surprise him that a lack of nightfall for a hundred years changed how people decide to carry on their waking periods, but it does frustrate him to think that he may be stopped by some well-meaning patron and unnecessarily needled.</p><p>What he wants is a moment to himself.</p><p>The restless spell that takes control of him is unfamiliar, though more bothersome than anything to get concerned about. Marcel shoulders open the wooden door and narrows his eyes at the hint of commotion beyond the end of the hallway. He can already sense he’ll be nauseous if he exposes himself to too much sound all at once, straining his working eye in the late night bustle of the Markets and giving himself a headache. Instead of wandering too far, he approaches the steel railing overlooking the pond that the Pendants was built upon. He sees movement beneath the water, and wonders, passingly, if fish and other aquatic creatures care at all about the sunlight that sinks through the water, or the way holy aether tastes on your tongue.</p><p>In a juvenile way, he wishes he had a pebble to throw in, or perhaps some gil, like wishing wells in Ul’dahn shopping centres. Marcel slouches against the railing, knee pressed between the steel bars. Above the quiet slough of water, Marcel can feel everything that gets to him in an uncomfortably self-aware way; realizing how tired he is, realizing how restless he’s become. When there is nothing to focus upon, his focus finds <em> anything. </em> There’s only a few people who can understand how his attention can fail him.</p><p>“You’re up past your bedtime,” tuts a familiar voice.</p><p>Marcel closes his eyes. Such as Emet-Selch.</p><p>He doesn’t catch the glimpse of darkness swelling around the Ascian’s traveling aether, and Marcel struggles to accept that he wishes he didn’t, for if <em> anything, </em> it would be a glimpse at true, solid darkness once more, after days of Il Mheg’s light filling him with nausea. It would be elemental, and he knows that the purple tinge of Emet-Selch’s magic is nothing he wants to familiarize himself with, it’d be welcome, for just a moment, like a cool breeze on a hot day. Which he will <em> never </em> allow Emet-Selch the privy of knowing.</p><p>“What? <em> Something </em> must have caught your attention that you’d go wandering,” Emet-Selch projects, his frustrating smile and his arrogant shrug hanging off him as usual. Marcel props his chin against his palm and refuses to make eye contact. “Or, is the Warrior of Darkness simply <em> bored?” </em></p><p>“You’re giving me a headache,” Marcel signs, and emphasizes his dissatisfaction by flicking two fingers in Emet-Selch’s direction, as one would a small, irritating spider off their palm.</p><p>“How hurtful. I’m not much of a morning person myself, but there’s no reason to be rude about it.” Emet-Selch circles from Marcel’s right to his left, to which Marcel pointedly turns his head away, disappointing Emet-Selch by showing his eyepatch. “Don’t tell me you sleep with that on.”</p><p>Marcel withholds the need to whip his head around and glare at his intrusive company. What he does instead is slouch further against the railing, and exhales once through his nostrils. At his side, he can hear Emet-Selch sigh as well, no doubt shaking his head and lifting his arms in a shrug. As he always does. Marcel has already done enough self-examination as to why he memorizes the detailed gestures of Emet-Selch, and he does not want to reflect upon that any longer. Thank you.</p><p>“I’m certain there’s enough company at those unsustainable markets up on the furthest part of this little outpost who would listen to your myriad of complaints, burdens, <em> agonies.” </em> He pauses. Marcel rolls his eyes at what he knows is coming next. “Or, you listen, they talk. You <em> are </em> good at that.”</p><p>Marcel offers him a cursory frown over his shoulder. Emet-Selch grins.</p><p>“However unwillingly, I’m sure,” he concludes.</p><p>Lifting himself off the railing, Marcel keeps his hands planted firmly around the steel beam before bringing them up to speak. “Are you here to talk? Do you want to share the sound of your voice?”</p><p>“I’m quite fond of that, yes,” Emet-Selch replies. “It may come as a surprise, but not <em> every </em> Ascian spends their time in shadow. Sometimes, why, we even go for walks! Find a lovely promenade to play chess in.”</p><p><em>“Wow.”</em> His expression tells all the tone Emet-Selch needs. “Doesn’t that sound like fun. Fly me to Eulmore. There’s one in the parlour.”</p><p>“And spend my waking hours among more unnatural talking heads? I’d rather exhaust myself making sense of how your people interpret those ‘Twelve’. Nothing like proper astrology, I should say. What you look up at is as meaningful as picking through broken glass and making a collage of the fragments. Ineffectual.”</p><p>Marcel finally leans his head towards Emet-Selch. Always his first mistake in allowing these conversations.</p><p><em> “Hmm? </em> Oh, don’t tell me you’re <em> interested, </em> now. A hundred different opportunities I’ve offered for our <em> friendship </em> to strengthen, and the only thing you lift your head towards is <em> astrology. </em> I’m not even responsible for those.”</p><p>Though he feels another grimace tug at the corner of his mouth, Marcel holds it back, and prompts him forward by leaning against a closed fist. Emet-Selch marks his grevious disappointment with nary more than a sharp sigh.</p><p>“And here I thought you were going to send me away for <em> bothering you. </em> You are quite rude, Warrior of Darkness.”</p><p>“Showing up unannounced is far from polite company.”</p><p>“If I were being <em> impolite, </em> I would enter your quarters without being asked. As it is, I am wandering the same halls you are, halls that you by no means hold ownership of.” Emet-Selch stands next to him as if he wishes to lean against the railing, but perhaps considers it too beneath him to allow himself. Marcel brings his hand back down across the iron, and feels his shoulder lose their tension— however unwise a decision that is remains to be seen. Emet-Selch does not seem to intend total harm, as of right now.</p><p>Emet-Selch looks up, and Marcel follows his gaze, peering through to the cherished darkness that hangs above the open air of the Pendants’ roof. It is far above them, yet Marcel cannot shake the feeling of being trapped beneath a snow globe. He’s seen the edges of Am Areng, immovable crystallized aether halted before it could swallow the land whole. He has also the way maps are drawn, forgetting the sheer size of what once was their Shard’s planet and instead colouring in old borders and stretches of ocean with solid white chalk. The stars are beautiful, even as Emet-Selch tuts in displeasure, yet they feel foreign, no matter how he tries to trace familiar constellations.</p><p>“Nothing catching your eye?”</p><p>Marcel shakes his head. Emet-Selch laughs.</p><p>“Of course not. It’s cramped, first of all. It’s more <em> tower </em> than <em> sky.” </em></p><p>There is truth to what he says; the immortal Crystal Tower stretches far beyond the sky’s limits, and even as Marcel cranes his head up to admire the fragment of sky, the spindle of its peak interferes with his total admiration. The blue glow swallows the stars, however unintentionally.</p><p>“Now, I <em> will </em> impose upon you an intrusive visit,” Emet-Selch says, finally touching the railing to lean over Marcel’s shoulder— the one his eye patch is covering. His shoulders involuntarily tense. “May we return to your room, hero?”</p><p>Marcel does not betray himself further. He turns away from Emet-Selch’s crowding against the banister, and then walks into his room without so much as a gesture. Surely, his company will understand what an unlocked door means. When the warm darkness of his room welcomes him back, Emet-Selch is soon past him, taking long steps towards the curtains. </p><p>He throws wide the window and takes a moment to bask in the misery of broken stars— so he would claim. Marcel watches the moonlight spill across his robes and cast a quiet shadow into his room, as Emet-Selch watches the sky. As Marcel steps closer and takes his space at his side, he watches the mask of confidence ease off Emet-Selch’s expression. It is neither sadness nor disappointment that colours him, necessarily, but an expression of listlessness. He knows the way men like Emet-Selch rue the loss of opportunities.</p><p>A short hum comes from Emet-Selch, almost like a laugh, and Marcel already knows he got caught staring. He closes his one eye for a moment to shake his head, and then looks up to where he thinks Emet-Selch is staring.</p><p>“The Ancients looked at the same sky. But there’s holes in this one.” Emet-Selch’s eyes flicker across the black shroud, from one star cluster to the next, looking for the precise lines of light that he remembers. Marcel feels a moment of pity, for he already knows that his knowledge means nothing to what Emet-Selch attempts to ordain. “Do you see that star, surrounded by oval points? That is one of those fragments. It had five little stars within its shape. Looks like they’ve burnt out. What a pity.”</p><p>He looks to Marcel, and remarkably, Emet-Selch regards him with raised furrowed brows and his familiar lopsided smile. “Don’t feel <em> bad </em> about yourself. I’m sure <em> you’re </em> not the reason the sky beyond this Star is missing a couple of lights.”</p><p>The reassurance doesn’t go unnoticed. But it <em> is </em> unfamiliar, so Marcel chooses to not bring much attention to it. He looks towards the skyline, past the walls of the Crystarium and between trees, rocks, fragments of crystal; if he gazed far enough, long enough, perhaps he could see the reaches of Kholusia, or perhaps the remaining forests of Rak’tika, where the Light remains potent, surrounding the shroud of night like the boundary of a grave.</p><p>Emet-Selch makes no effort to hide how he now decides to stare at him. Marcel can feel the way he stares at his jaw. With a deep sigh, remarkably content, Marcel looks to Emet-Selch once again.</p><p>They blink, together. Then, Emet-Selch lifts his gloved hand, index finger pressing to the underside of Marcel’s chin. <em> “Tired, </em> hero?” </p><p>He pushes up, tipping his chin. Marcel allows the gesture, closing his eyes as he feels Emet-Selch push and drag down his throat, exploring what he wants before he is pushed off. Marcel allows him his moment— allows him to press the pads of his fingers against his skin, finding the corner of his pulse and to admire him like a fine glass.</p><p>Emet-Selch presses against him just enough to make Marcel turn his head.</p><p>“You’ve made it no secret,” Emet-Selch says. Marcel wonders if he means anything else by that as he breaks their distance with a kiss.</p><p>It lacks the open intimacy Emet-Selch brokered with him just now, beneath the stars— it is quick, and Marcel finds himself quite pleased when he feels Emet-Selch grow stiff at his unyielding pressure. He tastes like a man who expects those who he seduces to fall for it. Or perhaps the type who sees how tall the wall is before knocking it down. Either way— Marcel is unquestionably in control of their kiss, open mouths that slot together without question. Marcel removes the hand on his throat and Emet-Selch loosens his wrist, limp and unnecessary in Marcel’s grasp. All he needs to offer is his mouth, for now. It’s good that even an Ascian knows his place.</p><p>Unfortunate, that Marcel is the one who needs to breathe between them. He parts, breathes in, and kisses Emet-Selch again, a firm command to shut up, for the hitch of Emet-Selch’s voice betrayed some new arrogant remark. Irritation does not guide his actions, but rather a natural conclusion. When he breathes once more, he replaces his mouth with a cupped hand, demanding silence between them.</p><p>Emet-Selch blinks slowly. Lazy and cat-like. It frustrates Marcel, but it feels compulsory. As if he is meant to feel the smouldering frustration, and any attempt to shuck it from his mind would go against what they have created; a compulsive push and pull. Beneath his hand, Marcel feels Emet-Selch kiss his palm, pursed lips and pecking his skin with a dusting of kisses.</p><p>Marcel brings his other hand up. The darkness hides his gesture. Perhaps it is for the best. But perhaps Emet-Selch sees him twist his wrist and gesture towards him. <em>Some other time.</em></p><p>His laughter remains covered, and it feels nice to hear him beneath Marcel’s skin. He reaches up with his own gloved hand, touching Marcel’s wrist and stroking where his wrist bone juts out. With a gentle tug, he moves Marcel’s hand down, turning his palm enough that his fingers catch on Emet-Selch’s lower lip.</p><p>“Very well,” he breathes, casting a crawl down Marcel’s spine as he pulls two fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t suck on them for long, but it makes Marcel burn from under his skin. </p><p>He feels Emet-Selch’s mouth stretch into a grin beneath the pads of his fingers before he is swallowed by his own darkness, vanishing like shifting sand. Marcel’s hand drops, unaware just how much he was relying on that touch.</p><p>The absence makes Marcel frown, if anything. Warm body be damned. Emet-Selch’s pliant mouth be <em>damned.</em></p>
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